


Sullivan (OC) drabbles

by bluuemoon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Drabbles, Gore, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Murder, Panic Attacks, Shooting Guns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluuemoon/pseuds/bluuemoon
Summary: So yeah I like my oc a lot and I'm gonna be writing about him a lot in itty bitty little segments, so I'm compiling them here over time.
Relationships: None (yet)





	1. THE BED

The world suddenly felt heavy on Sullivan's chest. Was the world always this heavy? He pressed a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of his hotel room as the walls seemed to spin around him. The party was in an hour or so, his pink suit was laying across his bed, ready to be worn. Yet somehow, it felt like weights in his hand. He couldn't breathe, since when was air so heavy? It felt like it was dragging him down like gravity, and he slowly sunk down until he sat on the floor now with his knees pulled up against his chest.  
His hand clutched his throat and he looked up at the ceiling. His vision swam, so many thoughts filling his head that he couldn't take another breath. His breathing came out in short bursts and shaky inhales. It hurt, it made his chest sting and his eyes burn. Was he crying? He couldn't feel his face but he could see the droplets that clung to his long lashes, blurring his vision. Since when did tears feel so heavy on his lashes?  
Fingers dug into his throat, he pushed his hand in. Maybe if he stopped the breathing, the tears would stop feeling so heavy.  
_Stupid, stupid, stupid. You're not good for anything but sex. You're not wanted here, you have no purpose here._  
Numb thoughts filled his head, he couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe again? The suit is on the bed, he has to be up soon. Soon he had to put it on and go flirt downstairs with anything that would speak to him. Anyone, anything he could do for someone's attention. Anything to be touched again.  
_Anything to feel something._


	2. FREEDOM

A large man loomed over a pitiful figure, the cold concrete walls around the trapping in the crisp dry air while shielding them away from the moon's vibrant light. Water dripped from the ceiling, creating an eerie rhythm with the hard labored breathing that bounced off the walls. The only illumination in the room was a small and dim ceiling lamp that swayed ever so slightly above the looming man's head.  
"Sullie, listen, buddy-"  
The man on the floor gasped for air when Sullivan pressed down all of his weight into his boot, pressing a sickening weight down on already cracked and broken ribs. Sullivan himself was panting through clenched teeth, watching the man under his boot squirm pitifully as he tried to reach for the gun that had been shot from his hands. Spitting out blood and sniffling back the blood he felt was starting to leak from his nose, he cocked his gun and shot the man in his outstretched arm. His face was full of loathing as he watched him writhe and howl in pain.  
He could almost feel it himself, having already been shot in the thigh by the very man he stood on. No pity was held for the man by Sullivan, despite the man's graying hairs and now brittle bones. Not even when the man who raised him reached up, clutching Sullivan's ankle like he was a holy symbol ready to give forgiveness.  
It should be easy for him to watch the man under his book choke on the blood that filled his mouth with every shaky inhale. The blood in his veins boiled, and he seethed, pressing the full brunt of his weight down into the space between the man's ribs. And yet, his hands trembled, knuckles turning white from the strain of his grip on the desert eagle clamped in both hands.  
His mind was made up. It wasn't like this was his first time in this position.  
"You filthy son of a bitch. I hope you have a God to pray to, but I doubt he'll answer you."  
Without waiting for a reply, he shot his uncle in the forehead, watching as the blood splattered his pant legs.


	3. WHITE WALLS

The walls of the basement were white. The cheap paint slapped across the concrete walls of the underground peeled at the edges, flakes of chipped paint gathering in the corners as water dripped in a slow mind numbing rhythm. Despite the water damage and lack of upkeep, the walls were a bright white. The shade of white that made your eyes strain if you stared too hard, a shade of white that felt like a void. Or perhaps, like Sullivan's own personal padded cell.   
Water that pooled in the corner of the room rippled with each rhythmical drip, echoing just slightly like a muted melody. Each drip a second apart. counting down the minutes that Sullivan spent curled up on the floor. He laid on his side, facing the wall with his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself like a straitjacket.   
It was painfully fitting, the white walls and the ticking clock that was the drops falling from the ceiling, the bruising grip he had on his biceps as he cradled himself like an infant on the grey concrete floor of his uncle's basement.  
He was sixteen, maybe seventeen at best. He didn't have to be down here, down in his uncle's basement. Nothing stopped him from going upstairs and leaving out the front door. Why wasn't he leaving? The only door that was locked was the door to the closet with all the drugs and guns, nothing was stopping him from leaving. The fresh cigarette burn on his shoulder didn't even hurt that bad, even as his trembling made ash drift down to the damp concrete floor. Why wasn't he leaving? Nothing was stopping him from leaving. His uncle was in the dining room counting money, his most recently burnt cigarette still on the floor.  
Why wasn't he leaving? His foot didn't even hurt that bad, even as the raw bare skin burned from where he had stepped on the dropped cigarette when he fled to the most recognizable room in the house. Why couldn't he leave? Nothing was stopping him. His uncle didn't stop him when he tried, he knew Sullivan would always come back. Where would he go? He has no home here, he has no family here. He couldn't leave, not even as he cried his eyes out on that cold and wet gray concrete floor, staring at the padded cell white of the concrete walls. Not even as the drip finally stopped, leaving him sitting in the aching silence that made his body tremble with fear. The drip finally stopped, and he could hear his uncle's footsteps upstairs.   
He learned to recognize when those heavy boots were coming down the basement stairs.


End file.
